


sanctuary

by reystars



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, omera pov, regency era glove shit, this began as a character study but I've lost control of my life so, tragic backstory with slight ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21655708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reystars/pseuds/reystars
Summary: Through their routine they begin to orbit one another, twin planets always pulling each other, finding each other, swinging dangerously close and never colliding. Without meaning to she learns what every shoulder movement means, every gesture and head tilt conveying everything she needs to know.
Relationships: The Mandalorian/Omera (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 260





	sanctuary

I.

Omera barely escapes Hoth.

Alongside rebel troops, shoulder to shoulder with Han and Luke and Leia, she’s one of the last to evacuate the freezing base. She’s not yet aware that she’s pregnant with a daughter. That she’ll name her Winta, after her father. That she’ll lose him in a blinding shower of sparks when his speeder is gunned down over the unforgiving snow as he’s desperately trying to escape the planet to join her in safety. 

She’s still reeling from the loss when she realizes the swelling of her stomach. A med droid confirms it easily, clinically, and Omera cries. She isn’t quite sure if she believes in the force but this feels like a miracle, a piece of him that will now live on. She knows that she needs to leave. As she packs her things, Leia places a comforting hand on her shoulder and tells her that what she will be doing is important work too. She gives birth among strangers on a foreign planet where the reeds sing at night and there is simple work to be done. It is a sanctuary, but not quite a home.

II.

Every time she looks into Winta’s bright eyes she’s reminded of the fire she was born in. She pulls her a little closer until Winta wriggles out of her arms to chase a frog, tripping over woven baskets and dashing around laughing friends. Omera has heard the second Death Star has been destroyed. It’s as if a veil has been lifted across the galaxy and she can breathe once more. As Winta’s carefree laugher echoes through the clearing and Omera dips her basket into the warm water, she smiles. Still, there is darkness stirring in the ashes of the Empire and Omera can _sense_ it. She is grateful for this life they have built and the community they have built with it, far away from the rubble and smoke of the war. She chooses to hold onto it for as long as she can.

But the violence still finds her.

Omera’s entire body goes rigid as she hears the grinding groan of the AT-ST. She knows exactly what it is before she even sees it. It’s as if she can smell the blaster singed bodies, can hear the screams of her fallen friends. Of her husband. The screams she’s hearing are not of the past, they are now. Klantooinians splash through the mud, crushing the reeds, swarming the village. Winta’s scream pierces her ears above all others and she’s at her side, grabbing her, pulling her toward the water.

As they watch through the holes in the woven basket, Omera can feel Winta whimper. She pulls her closer, wanting to protect her from the things that she is seeing. From what she is hearing. As they wait in the warm, steaming water, Omera holds Winta’s trembling form and waits for the storm to pass.

That night, Winta sleeps in Omera’s cot, curled against her mother. She doesn’t cry. Her soft, even breathing is the only thing that calms Omera’s stuttering heart, her fingers brushing through Winta’s soft curls. Her father’s curls. Sleep does not come, not as Omera is listening for the slow, steady pounding of the AT-ST. Early morning light flickers through the sides of the tent as Winta rolls over and asks what’s for breakfast.

Omera kisses the top of her head. “Whatever you want.”

III.

Stoke and Caben return with a Mandalorian in tow.

Omera sees the glinting of his armor, even through the shadows of the trees. He’s a stranger in full armor and she is fully prepared to distrust him until she sees two tiny green ears poking out of the floating cart. As she watches him gently lift the child—a species she’s never seen before—and cradle it gently, her mind is made up about him.

“I’ll set a place for him in my barn,” she tells Stoke and Caben.

She tries to give him privacy, to keep her curious questions at bay, but she can’t help but watch him. And she notices things, like the way his shoulders tense when the child wanders out of his field of vision, or the way he softly tilts his head when Winta pesters him with questions, never annoyed or put off by them.

But there is still danger lurking in the shadows of the trees, and their stubborn refusal to run means that everyone will need to fight.

“Okay, who knows how to shoot?”

Omera can feel the shocked murmur roll through the group around her as she slowly raises her hand. From the corner of her eye she can see Winta tilt her head up at her in surprise. A mysterious past didn’t stop this cluster of farmers from taking her in as their own, from becoming her family, but this admittance is a glimpse into her private, deepest life.

She holds her hand steady, watching the Mandalorian. It’s as if she can feel his steady gaze through his helmet, watching his body language, and she doesn’t find surprise in it. Understanding.

It’s hard to not feel a little bit of pride as she hits her target head on. An exhilarating rush runs through her as she thinks of the way she can now protect her family, protect her home. A small grin grows on her face and she can suddenly feel the gaze of the Mandalorian, close and intense. She sets the long-range blaster down, shoulder aching from the kick-back, and turns to look up at him. Without fully meaning to, her smile grows. With a jerky nod of approval, he immediately glances away, clearing his throat.

“Excellent,” he says, and his voice still raspy.

IV.

In the light of the flames of the crumpled, destroyed AT-ST, Omera lets a sob of relief rip through her. The long-range blaster lands in the damp grass as she runs to Winta, wrapping her up in her arms. She’s still holding the Child, so she cradles them both, kneeling on the ground, laughing.

A clink of armor lets he know that he’s standing there, the flames reflecting off of his helmet. She smiles up at him.

“Thank you,” she says. It’s a whisper that can barely be heard over the hoots and hollers of victory. The silver helmet shakes slightly in what looks like disbelief.

The Child hops out of Omera’s arms, nearly slipping on the wet grass as he stumbles towards the Mandalorian. With seemingly impossible gentleness he lifts the child off the ground, cradling him. His head tilts toward Omera and their gazes comfortably tether together. He does not look away.

Finally they are safe.

V.

She grows so used to him that it feels like he has always been there.

Him and the Child both mold into their lives naturally, perfectly, wonderfully. Through their routine they begin to orbit one another, twin planets always pulling each other, finding each other, swinging dangerously close and never colliding. Without meaning to she learns what every shoulder movement means, every gesture and head tilt conveying everything she needs to know.

But there are still moments when he is unreadable. She swears she can feel the heat of his hand through his glove as he helps her out of the Krill pond and she holds it for a little too long, long enough for him to pull away, look away, retreat. She draws a hundred different faces for him in her head as she falls asleep each night, but none of them seem to truly fit. As she’s cradling the Child to sleep one evening, she feels him softly brush her hair back over her shoulder. His hand lingers just for a moment, as if he’s caught himself but can’t quite bring himself to move.

Her breath catches and his touch is gone as soon as it was there.

VI.

“I don’t belong here. But he does.”

_You do belong here. With me_.

She says, “I understand.”

_Stay_.

And then he is gone.

VII.

“I miss them, mama.”

“I know. I do too.”

VIII.

Omera ducks through her doorway to see what all the commotion is about. There’s a stranger standing among the villagers, his back to her. He’s wearing a simple burlap shirt and dark pants, a sack slung over his shoulder. Winta is hiding behind her skirts, watching him suspiciously, and as if he can sense them, he turns. All it takes is that familiar movement, the way his shoulders move, to stop Omera from moving any closer.

His face is beautiful than any of the ones she’d tried to picture. A tentative smile, a day’s worth of scruff on the jaw. His dark brown hair grown a little past his ears, curling in the humid air. His eyes are soft, wrinkled around the edges, looking at her with a tenderness that makes her heart stop.

Letting out a sudden squeal, Winta runs right past him, grabbing the Child, picking him up, swinging him around. Omara lifts a hand to her mouth, covering the soft “o” that has formed.

Gravity takes its course, pulling them together. As she gets closer, she can see more details in his face. The wrinkles around his eyes, a scar on his chin. She hesitantly lifts up a hand, gently placing it on his cheek. As if on instinct he turns into her touch, closing his eyes. For the first time in a long time she can breathe once more.

“You came back,” she says softly, a smile on her lips.

His eyes open and he looks down at her, taking her hand in his. She can feel the callouses on his fingers as he threads them through hers.

“I came home.”


End file.
